


caught in the undertow

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Delayed Drowning", #13, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Whump, Arthur doesn't have TB, Breathe In, Breathe Out, Day 13, Delayed Drowning, Drowning, Hurt No Comfort, Major character death - Freeform, Secondary Drowning, TB What TB, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, no. 13 - Freeform, no.13, prompt 13, pulmonary edema, whumptober2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2020, #13: Breathe In, Breathe Out: Delayed Drowning“Grab on, we’re almost home free!”Arthur’s head had gone below water again, and he’d swallowed water. He’d surged up just in time—“Come here, big boy…”—for Dutch to grab his hand, hauling him out of the water—“I got ya.”
Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945801
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	caught in the undertow

###  _caught in the undertow_  
~Numb, Linkin Park

_“Grab on, we’re almost home free!”_

Arthur’s head had gone below water again, and he’d swallowed water. He’d surged up just in time— 

_“Come here, big boy…”_

—for Dutch to grab his hand, hauling him out of the water—

_“I got ya.”_

—and Dutch had been, if not laughing, pretty damn close, high off the thrill of just barely surviving. Arthur would have been laughing too if he hadn’t been busy choking up water, Dutch’s fist slamming on his back helping him get air into his lungs—

_“We’re okay. You’re okay.”_

—and breathing had been hard even once he’d managed to consistently breathe, talking with Dutch as he slumped and tried to gather his wits about him. He’d accepted Dutch’s hand when the man offered it, must have looked pitiful enough that Dutch didn’t even suggest splitting up, instead whistled for their horses and rode off together.

  
  


“-thur! Arthur!”

Arthur jolted upright, almost spurring his gelding into a gallop as he did so, and Dutch eyed him - “How many times have I told you not to sleep in the saddle son?”

Irritation flickered through Arthur, a year or two ago that would’ve been said fondly, amused, but now Dutch just sounded annoyed. But the irritation died as quickly as it came, and he sighed, “Sorry Dutch. Tired.” the sigh broke on a cough.

“Just be careful Arthur, I need you strong.”

“I know,” his breath caught, and Dutch frowned, watching his chest heave as though they were riding far harder than they were. He reined The Count in to an even slower walk, Arthur doing the same to his Shire, keeping an eye on the man to make sure he didn’t fall asleep in the saddle.

  
  


Despite the slower pace, Arthur’s breathing didn’t ease. Got worse, if it were possible, chest heaving as though he’d been sprinting a mile, occasionally gasping a cough. “You alright, son?”

Arthur didn’t respond, coughed again.

“Arthur?”

Another cough, and then another, then another, and then the sound of boots hitting the ground.

Dutch reined in The Count, turning just in time to see Arthur vomit on the ground, going to his knees. “Shit!” he swung out of his stallion’s saddle, rushing to the man’s side and kneeling beside him, only growing more alarmed when he _just kept coughing,_ choking every time he tried to inhale, moving to kneel in front of him, cradling his face, “Jesus, Arthur, breathe, breathe with me,” and grew further alarmed when Arthur’s eyes met his, wild and panicked, coughing more and more harshly.

_‘Help. Help me.’_ he mouthed with lips going blue, and Dutch’s hands shook as he begged him to “Breathe, Arthur, please,” trying to instruct him to breathe with him but he couldn’t stop coughing long enough to inhale at all.

  
  


“Please, Arthur,” Dutch _never_ begged but he was watching his son suffocate in front of him and he was already kneeling in a pool of bloody vomit so why not beg? “Please, just breathe,” he pulled him close, Arthur practically convulsing against him with the force of his gasping, each attempt at an inhale screaming in his throat, painfully loud next to his ear. He cradled him, clutched the back of his head, rocked him side to side in a desperate attempt at calming him long enough to get any sort of air in his lungs because _his son couldn’t breathe_ and Arthur was clawing at his vest, coughing and screaming inhales in turn, his struggling going weaker and “God, Arthur, please breathe, don’t give up, _please,”_

but Arthur _couldn’t breathe_ and no matter how hard Dutch begged he couldn’t fix this - Arthur had been damned from the moment he’d gone under - and Arthur was going limp against him and _“Oh god, Arthur please.”_


End file.
